Salut! I have returned after a much-needed hiatus - with Chapter Four! *winces at the rotten tomatoes being chucked at her head* Hey now . . . no need for meaningless violence. Save it for Voldemort.
Anyway, seeing as how it's been so long since I posted a chapter, and since my wonderful Padfoot wrote out this summary for herself anyway, I'm gonna give you a brief synopsis (though, if you haven't actually read the previous chapters, I do recommend it, because while I commend Padfoot for her Gryffindor-like efforts, I sometimes question her sanity):
"Voldemort has been defeated. After Voldemort's defeat, Harry felt kind of like a rebel without a cause. No Voldemort, no constant danger, no need to be a last second hero . . . no real purpose. In search of purpose he went to join the Belligerents, which Dumbledore had suggested to him at the time. It was a group that supposedly "fought evil." Harry got in and disappeared from the world, his friends, AND his godfather! How dare he! But things are still bad. Really bad. Worse than with Voldemort. Without their original leader's calculating mind the Slytherins (Death Eaters) have run amok. Mudbloods are in concentration camps. Hermione now works for WAR, an organization that was started to battle all the newfound chaos. Sirius also works in WAR, in a position significantly higher than Hermione, as he says he has some influence at the top, but not *the* top. Now, the Belligerents want to have a spy in the ranks of WAR, so they send Harry to go get himself in. On Harry's personal side, this means that he has to go back to his past and confront all these people that he, yes, abandoned. He's met Hermione and Sirius, they're just ecstatic to see him, and after a few well-chosen comments about kittens and Disney movies everything is fine and dandy. And being back with those two seems to be making Harry reconsider just how loyal he is with the Belligerents . . . And to make matters really bad, Dumbledore, the all-knowing answer man of the wizarding world is gone, so there won't be any half hour adventure climax where all you've got to do is hang on to the sorceror's stone until Dumbee gets there. At the present moment Harry is just about to start the WAR entrance exam and doesn't feel quite so cocky as he did when he began . . . "
Thank you, Padfoot. And because she explicitly commanded that I say this: Padfoot is wonderful!
P.S. If anyone can figure out where the titles for the chapters are coming from, I'll give you a . . . virtual cookie! Once I find out how to send it through email, of course . . . (Padfoot and Prongs, you're excluded from this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, because I know you know the answer). Anyway, on to the purpose of this story:
Belligerence
Chapter Four - Slowly I Become One with the Mud
Name: Harry James Potter
Age: 23
Birthdate: July 31, 1980
Occupation: None to date.
Address: Apt. 2B, 23 Rodney St., Islington, London
Skills/Background:
Sole survivor of Killing Curse
Winner of 1994 Tri-Wizard Tournament at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Final Defeat of Lord Voldemort in 1998
Wizarding Wireless-Generated Codename: Achilles
"I must admit, that's an impressive resume. Especially given the fact that it's less than half of your past experiences."
Harry shrugged dismally as he looked off to the side in feigned disinterest. It was common practice in Belligerent standards to avoid being eager about anything - especially new jobs. "I was really just doing it off the top of my head. Besides, I don't want to look conceited or anything."
A vague smile twitched at the corners of Griffen's mouth, but he merely shook his head. "Of all wizards in this day and age, Mr. Potter, you are most worthy of being conceited. History books sans your name are already extinct. I must say, it's an honor for you to even be in my office."
Harry's ears were turning bright red, and he could feel the blood creeping down his neck. It wasn't the first time that someone had said this. Zeusia had been rather shocked when he showed up in her office five years ago. But she had been more nervous about his ability in combat than acquiring his name in her ranks. It had been a refreshing experience for him. Everyone else had been clamoring for his attention at the time.
It had been Dumbledore's idea. "They used to be a league against Voldemort, last I heard. But now that there's no more Voldemort, there's no need for them. I imagine, if there's evil in the world – and there always will be – they'll be fighting it. No matter what form it may take," he had said. Next thing Harry knew, he was running an obstacle course filled with Dark creatures and spells blasting at him from all sides – all to be greeted at the end with Zeusia's stern smile and a brand-new uniform.
He had a feeling that he wouldn't have to prove himself here.
"Potter, I would be lying if I said that I didn't want you to join. But I can't just wave you in . . . believe me, I wish I could. But there's the matter of making sure you're qualified." Harry sighed, readjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he straightened himself in the leather chair. "I understand. You're not the first person to say that to me. I've done those kind of tests before."
Griffen averted his gaze from Harry, staring down at the nearly blank resume in front of him. "Yes, well, I'm afraid they aren't tests."
"What else could they be?"
"They're more like . . . evaluations."
Harry smirked to himself, slouching down once more. He set his lips back into a line as Griffen's gaze swept back to Harry, the latter emitting the glow of his laid-back aura once more. "They're not very harmful, mind you. Just . . . different. And if you're not qualified, we have to doctor out every possible memory charm available to us, just to make you forget the experience. There's the high risk of making you forget more than we want you to, as well. It's really up to you . . . we hate the consequences, but it's the only way to be sure of ourselves."
"Well, I'm ready and willing."
Griffen blinked in disbelief, staring at Harry for a moment in uncertainty. "Are – are you sure?"
Harry smiled shakily, standing as he offered his hand to Griffen. "Positive. I've been through this before – I'm pretty sure I know what to expect."
Griffen smiled as he took Harry's hand, clasping it in his own. "Well, then . . . Merlin be with you, Harry. I'll see you in t - "
Before Harry had a chance to respond, he felt a jerk behind his knees and the room fell away, leaving him weightless and suspended in mid-air. The next thing he knew, his vision had been licked away and he was lying on his back, the stone floor beneath him chilling his skin through the thin Oxford shirt and khaki slacks he wore. He reached a hand up to his face to secure his glasses, but found that they had already flown off. He cursed silently and looked around once more, noting that he couldn't distinguish any movement around him because of the absence of his glasses. He lifted his face towards the dim torchlight that skirted the empty room, almost smiling as it reminded him of Hogwarts. Looking away from the light, he squinted at the rest of the room, feeling the floor for his wire frames. "Hello?" he called.
He thought he may have heard an answer, but the throbbing pain he was experiencing in the back of his head dulled his senses momentarily. He groaned aloud, pulling himself into a sitting position as he clutched one hand to his skull, massaging the lump he felt forming underneath his hair.
"Well, if it isn't Harry Potter, himself."
Harry's hand fell from his face, his eyes widening in astonishment. Surely, it couldn't be. . . could it? Maddeningly, he groped along the floor for his glasses, finally finding them perched just to his left, the thin frames barely skewed from the contact. Haphazardly, he shoved them back on his nose, blinking at the change in focus. Draco Malfoy stepped out of the shadows of the torch-lit room, an acidic smirk gracing his face. His hands were tucked neatly in his pockets and he slouched ever-so-slightly – just enough to give him a malicious stature – as the back-lighting from the flickering flames set off a stark contrast along the outline of his languid body. His hair had grown longer than Harry ever remembered it. It was now ear-length, the silver strands of silk draping over his forehead and dangling before his cold eyes. Harry drew in a sharp breath, instinctively drawing away from his life-long enemy, scuttling backwards like a crab. Draco's smirk weakened for but a moment at Harry's reaction, but he quickly reasserted himself, drawing his chin higher as he regarded the dark-haired man that scurried away from him.
"So we meet again, Harry."
Harry finally felt a solid surface behind him, wincing as his head came in contact with the stone wall. He placed his hands behind him, using the wall for support as he staggered to his feet – suddenly becoming even more aware of the dull pain in the back of his head. He trained his eyes on Draco, anticipating every slight of hand that the Malfoy might pull. He swallowed thickly at Draco's words, and found that his voice had escaped him temporarily, so he merely narrowed his eyes at Draco in answer.
Draco found this funny. "Cat got your tongue, Harry? Or should I say rat?"
Harry cleared his throat, struggling to find some sort of witty retort off the top of his head, but there was no doing. "Y-you're dead, Malfoy. All the Malfoys are dead." His eyes began scanning the expanse of the room, searching for any possible exits - be it window, door, or heating grate. He bit his lip as he came to the conclusion that he was quite stuck.
Draco looked genuinely disappointed in him. "Your first words to me in six years, and that's all you can say? Weren't you festering over insults for me, all this time? You could have thought of something much better to say, surely. I expected more from you, Potter."
"Needless to say, I could care less."
Draco held up his hands in defense. "Now, now. No need to get offensive, Mr. Potter. We're here to discuss business, are we not?"
Harry drew himself away from the comfort of the wall, but kept one hand firmly attached to it, to steady himself, as he found his legs unsupportive of his full body weight. "I don't do business with Malfoys." His eyes were now preoccupied with scanning the walls for any doors or windows, but he saw none.
Draco's smirk flicked into a wide grin, his perfectly straight teeth gleaming behind pale lips in the torchlight. "Oh, come on Potter. We both know that B-movie dialogue went out with the '70's."
Harry's glare turned full-force on Draco. "Don't mess with me, Malfoy. Your family's dead, you've disappeared, and you have no place in the world any longer. I've made a name for myself. I could get you deported with the flick of a wand, if I so wished."
Draco's grin faltered, but he paid it no heed. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I know perfectly well what I'm talking about and I mean every word of it. Send me back to Griffen's office and I'll leave you alone. Keep me here, and you're dead meat."
"Except for one thing."
"Oh?"
"You don't know where 'here' is."
Harry tore his gaze away from Draco once again, glimpsing the surroundings of the room in which they stood. Still, he saw nothing but stone walls and torches spanning the walls at three- or four-meter intervals. No tapestries portraying wizard or Muggle history, no carpets spread along the floors, no velvet-covered chairs placed comfortably around a hearth – there wasn't even a hearth to begin with. It was a cold, damp room, and the only other cold, damp room that Harry knew of belonged underground in a certain castle situated north of England.
"This can't be Hogwarts. Hogwarts was destroyed years ago," he finally said.
"Was it?" Draco responded. He tilted his head slightly, offering Harry an inquisitive expression as he pursed his lips in thought. "No," he added, "I don't think it was. I think you imagined it."
"You're more of an idiot than I thought you were. Hogwarts was burned to the ground years ago," Harry snapped back.
Draco couldn't help letting out a quiet laugh as he let his head fall forwards, shaking it back and forth in amusement. "How little you know, Potter. How painfully little."
"Spare me the formalities, Malfoy. I never did enjoy your method of communication."
"What method would that be?" Draco asked, a single eyebrow raised in amusement as he lifted his head to meet Harry's gaze – cold sapphires landing on fiery emeralds.
Harry half-smiled to himself as he looked away in thought, letting his gaze land on the flickering light across the room from where he stood. "You just love beating around the bush, don't you? Confusing the enemy into submission until they no longer want to deny your falsities. It was the only strength you ever had, apart from your two goons."
"I never had 'goons.' I never wanted them. I hated them."
"Then why use them against everyone?"
"I was taught to use everything to my best advantage. Even you should have expected that from me."
Harry snapped his eyes back to Draco's face, taking in the set jaw and tightly-lipped mouth. He narrowed his eyes considerably, setting his own jaw firmly as he found himself glaring at the pale man. "Oh, I don't know, Draco. I thought I knew 'painfully little,'" he retorted, his voice dripping with acid.
Draco looked as though he were about to lash out at something, anything, but he maintained his self-control, pulling his hands from his pockets and clenching them into fists, flexing them out again, over and over. He met Harry's glare with one of equal contempt, taking a step towards him. "You know nothing, Potter. You know nothing about what's going on under your own nose. Your friends are dying and you can't stop it. Your sanctuary is a shambles and your beloved Dumbledore is dead. You know nothing, Potter."
Harry's glare softened slightly as he furrowed his brows in confusion at Draco's words, but he said nothing. A few spiteful words were lingering on his lips, but he stopped them out of curiosity. Draco had been absent from public view for the greater part of five years now – how was it feasible that he could know so much?
"Hogwarts – the building – is gone. But everything it stood for is intact. It's a matter of locating it."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Draco smirked again, his taut lips stretching even further over his thin face. "Oh, don't I? Why don't you ask Hermione? Surely she wouldn't keep secrets from you, now would she?" Harry then lunged at Draco – why, he did not know, but his furor was met with a square punch to the jaw from Malfoy. He sent his own fists flying, occasionally making contact with a soft body, satisfied with the alien feeling of skin contacting skin and the moment of pain coursing through his own nerves afterwards. The throbbing in his skull vanished as he was consumed with vengeance, letting his stress and built-up anger flee his psyche through his fists and well-placed kicks.
It wasn't until Draco stopped fighting back that Harry realized he was alone on the floor – and that the floor was no longer stone. Rather, it was a plush white carpet beneath him, and there was someone grabbing his shoulder, trying to still him. He paused, rolling himself over for a better look, and was met with Griffen's face hovering over him; concern mixed with confusion in his pained expression as a red welt grew steadily just below his left eye. Harry winced at the sight, realizing that he had been the cause.
"Harry! Get a grip on yourself, for heaven's sake!"
Harry gently shoved the older man away, pulling himself slowly to a sitting position and groaning softly as the throbbing returned to his skull. "Griffen. . . what happened. . . ?" he moaned softly. Griffen sat back on his heels, watching Harry steadily as he shook his head.
"I was just about to tell you about your first evaluation, when you just keeled over. . . I tried to wake you up, but you kept mumbling about Hogwarts. And then you punched me. Pretty good aim for being unconscious."
Harry flinched again, meeting Griffen's eyes shyly. "I'm sorry . . . it wasn't meant for you, trust me . . ."
Griffen nodded silently, clambering to his feet and offering a hand down to Harry. Harry took it gratefully, standing up on shaky feet as his mind dizzied for a moment. "I know," Griffen answered. "It was meant for Malfoy."
Harry gave him a look of alarm, but Griffen merely waved it off. "You kept shouting 'Malfoy!' as you were punching me," he clarified.
Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his mussed hair as he let out a breath. "Really, I must apologize again," he said softly. "I don't know what that was . . . a dream, I'm assuming . . . "
Griffen only waved it off. "It's all right, Harry. You must be unaccustomed to the safety charms we've got set up around here. Sometimes they make people dizzy, but I've never heard of anyone passing out before . . . " Harry's ears reddened considerably. Griffen offered him a half-smile as he continued. "As for beating me to a pulp, don't worry. I've taken my share of beatings in past years. It won't affect your evaluation at all. It was out of your control."
But as Griffen went on to explain the exact time and date for his WAR evaluation, Harry found his mind wandering rather relentlessly. He wasn't quite sure if anything was in his control anymore.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Harry, do you want anything? I'm going to the store."
Harry glanced up from the television, shrugging in disinterest. "If you see something you think I'd want, get it. Otherwise, no."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Thank you for the insightful suggestion. I'll keep that in mind." She whirled around to face Sirius, who was sprawled across an easy chair on the other end of the room, a Witch Weekly open in his lap. Hermione snorted in laughter. "Would you like anything, Sirius? A bit of mascara, perhaps?"
Sirius was obviously not paying attention – he didn't even bother to look up as he nodded at her. Harry's attention was drawn away from the TV as he overheard Hermione's comment, raising a precarious eyebrow in amusement.
"Sirius? Mascara? No, I think he's more the lipstick-and-blush type of guy," Harry said.
Hermione put a finger to her lips, nodding thoughtfully. "What shade of blush do you think? Nude or Cherry Pink?"
"Oh, the Nude, definitely," Sirius answered. He looked up then, his eyes twinkling as he flipped a page in the magazine. "And for your information, I have not decided to become a cross-dresser – I've merely discovered the wonderful recipes contained within the covers of this very-feminine magazine."
"Recipes?" Harry asked.
Sirius shrugged. "I like food. I like good food. Therefore, I learn how to make good food."
"Well, you're certainly taking the bull by the horns, there," Hermione replied. She leaned toward him, peering at the article title. Her face broke out into a wide grin as she tottered back on her heels. "Do you want some mayonnaise to go in that "100 Ways to Win a Man" you'll be fixing us tonight?" she asked innocently.
Sirius glared at her. "Ex-convict here. Don't forget that."
"Oh, sure . . . amazing what you learn in jail cells!" she called over her shoulder as she headed towards the door.
Sirius growled then, picking up the magazine and tossing it at her, but it landed on the closed door as she escaped just in time.
Harry shook his head as he laughed to himself, scooping up the remote control and flicking through a few TV stations. "You'll never win with her, Sirius," he said.
Sirius unfolded himself from the easy chair and strode into the kitchen, opening the fridge and ducking his head inside. "I know. But don't tell her that. We'll never hear the end of it." He emerged with a Fizzing Lemony in one hand and a wide grin on his face. "When was the last time I had this stuff, man? Must have been fifth year . . . "
Harry peered around the doorway from where he sat, one eyebrow raised. "What is it? I've been confined to water and company-issued meals for the past five years."
Sirius made a face as he popped open the tab and took a swig from the aluminum can. He grinned as he swallowed, his eyes screwing up slightly at the taste. "Fizzing Lemony! The most sour stuff you can imagine – with enough sugar and caffeine to leave you hyper for days."
Harry finally got up from the couch and joined Sirius, shaking his head. "What is it with you and caffeine these days?"
"What do you mean?"
"First it was the coffee, now you're getting hyper off that . . . that stuff . . . I'm beginning to worry about you."
Sirius merely grinned, tipping his head back as he took another swig. "Don't worry, Harry. The Muggles have much worse alternatives."
Harry stepped over to the cabinet above the sink and pulled out a box of crackers. "Yeah, I know," he replied. He flipped open the box lid and started munching on a few saltines. "I know all too well."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, setting the can down on the counter and stealing a few of Harry's crackers. "Do you?"
Harry nodded, leaning back against the counter and crossing his ankles. "There was a lot of drug trafficking in the Belligerents. Lot of OD's, too."
Sirius tilted his head thoughtfully, nibbling on one of the saltines. "You weren't into that stuff, though, were you?"
"Merlin, no. I had a friend that was, though."
"What happened?"
Harry turned to face Sirius, a decidedly blank look on his face. "I've seen a lot of death in my life, Sirius. But none as meaningless as that."
"I bet I have."
Harry frowned as he looked towards the floor and leaned his elbows on the edge of the counter. "I don't doubt it. But that's what the Belligerents were all about, you know? The more destruction, the easier it is to kill the enemy. We just seemed to destroy ourselves more than anything else."
"So you've decided to leave them?"
Harry shrugged, oblivious to the piece of ebony hair that swung down into his eyes, resting on the wire frame of his glasses, and lost himself in a moment of indecision. He could still hear Zeusia's instructions echoing in his thoughts: "Just tell them that you want to quit the Belligerents and join WAR. They shouldn't question that motivation." But he hated lying to his godfather. He lifted his head, glancing towards the older man in contemplation. "Well . . . to be honest . . . "
Sirius nodded for him to continue.
"Well, I'm not sure if I'm quitting yet or not."
There was silence for a moment, but Sirius did not seem disappointed. He merely shrugged and grabbed a few more crackers. Harry blew out a breath and turned to face him, pushing himself off of the counter. "I figured you'd be mad for that one," he said quietly.
Sirius merely shrugged. "I can't be mad. It's your decision, Harry. I trust you to make the right one . . . and to know that the Belligerents are a bunch of whiny twits that don't know the difference between a Levitating Charm and the Killing Curse – but that's besides the point."
Harry half-smiled as he reached for the Fizzing Lemony. "You're right. They really are quite ruthless. But they're good people." He lifted the can of soda to his lips, tasting it tentatively.
Sirius looked like he was about to speak, but held back as Harry's face contorted into a look of disgust.
"What is this?" he exclaimed.
Sirius grinned toothily at him. "I was about to say – be careful on the first taste. It's a doozy."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
The turntable was churning slowly; needle scratching on old black vinyl. Its slowed rotation resulted in nothing more appealing than nails scratching a blackboard – there was no music to be heard at a 10 RPM speed. But it didn't matter very much, as the record was broken, anyway. It simply kept repeating the same line, "Lost the plot," over and over – so painstakingly slow that Harry was about to rip the needle off, yank the record from the turntable, and break it over his knee. But his nerves kept his aggressive actions in check, willing him to stay seated in the leather armchair. Griffen would be back at any moment, and it would not do Harry's evaluation any good to be caught destroying company property. Especially if the record happened to be a favorite of Griffen's (which he found highly possible).
So he simply closed his eyes and started humming – rather loudly, in fact. It droned out the noise coming from the record, but it didn't help his concentration by any means. He caught himself cringing a few times at his own lack of musical prowess, but he kept going, satisfied to be relieved of the horrific noise. And then the music stopped. Not with the slow winding-down that he was accustomed to, that slowing of the tempo and the softening of the tone. It ended abruptly, caught somewhere between a B-flat and G, just before it progressed to an arpeggio. He had the music memorized by that point, and was rather surprised by the sudden ending – it was awkward, at the very least. But then again, maybe the record wasn't broken – maybe it was some 1960's whacked-out orchestration that was intended to make any sober person's mind ache – but stimulate the brain of someone on narcotics. Maybe John Lennon wrote it.
The turntable stopped as he opened his eyes and ceased his incessant humming, raising an eyebrow at the still needle and dusty vinyl. It was almost eerie in the silence that followed – the last notes of the song were still hanging in the air, clinging to his memory like a bad aftertaste, but there was no more to be heard. Even the soft whir of the wizard clock had diminished to something undetectable by human ears. He sat up in the armchair, his back achingly straight with anticipation – what was that?
He jerked his head to the left, towards the main door, but saw nothing. Maybe he'd imagined hearing it open. Then again, he was quite accustomed to ghosts. Were there ghosts in the WAR office? The silence settling on the room was not typical of any ghosts he was familiar with. Nor did he know any invisible creatures that could –
Invisible. His Invisibility Cloak.
No, that couldn't be right. The only people in London that knew he possessed one were Hermione and Sirius. Ron was abroad. Besides, even if Ron had come home, he had no way of knowing that Harry was back in London, thus he wouldn't know where to look for Harry or the Invisibility Cloak. It had to be Hermione or Sirius. But what would they want with him, now?
He cleared his throat, alarmed to find his mouth completely dry. Hadn't he just had an entire glass of water? "Her-Hermione?" he croaked out.
Silence.
"Sirius?" he tried. There! He heard it again . . . the faintest of scuffling along the wooden floor, that delicate sound of footsteps that his ear had been trained to after many late-night adventures at Hogwarts. He grinned to himself, hoping to catch the perpetrator off-guard.
"Sirius? That's you, isn't it?"
But there was silence again, and he paused before rising from the chair, glancing behind his back a few times before looking towards the door again. "Well, it's either Hermione or Sirius," he said to himself. He kept staring at the door, rather undaunted by the sudden whooshing sound that came a moment later. But then standing between him and the door was a person – a very distinctly Hermione-person.
Harry smirked to himself, crossing his arms over his chest in satisfaction. "Uh-huh . . . and who was right again?"
Hermione blew a hair out of her face in exasperation, throwing him a death-glare. "Stop joking around, Harry. This is serious."
He grinned. "No, Sirius is my godf-"
But Hermione rolled her eyes, tossing the Cloak at him as she strode to Griffen's desk, yanking open the top right drawer. "Shut up. You were never very good at perception, were you?" she snapped.
Harry blinked, catching the Cloak in one hand as he watched her with a slightly unhooked jaw. She had never been this outspoken before – ever. "What's wrong, Hermione?"
"What's wrong, Hermione?" she mimicked, looking up at him with a more-than-slightly perturbed look on her face. "Give it a rest, Harry. You know perfectly well what's wrong. It's Slytherin against Gryffindor, isn't it? What else could be wrong? Those damn Slytherins killed a whole camp full of Mudbloods, and the Ministry's rushing for the opportunity to blame it on us."
"Us? WAR, you mean?"
"Yes, WAR. They hate us – they won't even tolerate us. They want us obliterated. Merlin knows why, but they're certain that we're disciples of Voldemort or something. We've got to withdraw any and all files that might connect us to the concentration camps . . . that includes my personals."
Harry crossed over to her, leaning against the mahogany desk as he lowered his voice to a private tone that – he hoped – would not be detected by the recording devices stationed around the room. "Your personals? What does that have to do with it?"
"I'm the entire "camp branch" of the business, Harry. I'm the only one that goes to the camps, the only one that knows anything about them. Any files I've recorded will be used as fodder against us – guaranteed." She plopped down into Griffen's deskchair, scooting towards his Wizarding Terminal and pulling up a few of her written files on ParchWorks. Harry could only watch in a dumb stupor as she deleted every last word she'd written in the past five years, grimacing as she flipped through a few of the more gruesome details.
"Hermione, you really don't need to delete everything, do - ?" She waved him off, clicking the close button on the monitor, and the computer vanished into thin air.
"Yes, Harry, I did need to delete everything, because this only gives them one more excuse to kill me." He blinked, uncertain of how to respond to such a statement. "Lucius Malfoy's dead, but they still have me on their hitlist. I'm not even supposed to exist. As far as you know, Harry Potter, I was never born. Understood?"
He nodded dumbly, only vaguely aware that his worst fear had come true – but only on a surreal level. He gripped the edge of the wooden desk with numb fingers, barely noticing as she stepped away from him and headed towards the door. As her hand landed on the knob, he whirled around quickly, reaching out a hand to stop her. She glanced at him over her shoulder, hand still firmly placed on the doorknob.
"Where are you going?" he asked quietly, in the same undertone as before.
She shrugged his hand off of her shoulder and looked towards the ceiling for a moment, biting her lip in thought. "Probably Canada. I can live as a Muggle there, no problem."
He let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and sighed quietly. "I'm coming with you," he said softly – barely loud enough for her to hear him, but enough to make her pause even longer.
"You can't be serious," she answered.
He shrugged, raking an idle hand through his dark mass of hair. "Sirius is living in America, isn't he? I'd rather live with you and be closer to him than sit here and watch the Ministry tear everything apart."
And then Hermione vanished.
He blinked in astonishment, whirling around the room to see if she had Apparated to another corner. But no . . . Hogwarts had been destroyed just before she would have received her Apparating License – she had no way of doing it. He looked down at his arms, noting with some puzzlement that he was still clutching the Invisibility Cloak in one hand, its crystalline shimmer of fabric dangling from his fingertips.
"Hermione?" he croaked out.
There was the sound of someone clapping. A whistle – and was that a catcall!? He whirled around to the door again, and there in the doorway stood the terrible threesome, as he would come to call them: Hermione, Sirius, and Griffen. Griffen was clapping his hands together roughly, Hermione was whistling, and Sirius had his fingers firmly planted in his mouth, catcalling like there was no tomorrow.
Understanding suddenly dawned on him, and he fell backwards – thankfully, right into the leather armchair that he had occupied only a few moments earlier, the Invisibility Cloak drifting out of his grasp.
Griffen strode forward, catching the Cloak in his hands and handing it to Hermione, who whisked it around her shoulders. "Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You passed the exam."
Harry lifted weary eyes to Griffen's beaming face, but was not amused. "You must be joking," he replied.
Sirius joined them, shaking his head at Harry's blatant denial. "The tests here aren't those of courage, Harry. They're to measure what extent one would go to for others. In your case, you agreed to abandon the only world you've ever known to be of aid to Hermione in a time of need." He merely grinned at Harry's scowl. "All right, so it's psychological and a tad cliché. It still worked, didn't it?"
Harry blinked as a sudden thought struck him. The Belligerents never took that into consideration . . . But he merely shrugged from his seat, ignoring the sudden revelation. "I'd say it was bit vague – you could also interpret my actions as simply selfish," he told them.
Sirius looked to Griffen, who was rolling his eyes. "Harry, it wasn't selfish. If you were being selfish, you wouldn't have cared to stay within a fifty-mile vicinity after Hermione told you that the Ministry wanted her dead – anyone thought to be associated with her would automatically be put on their hitlist, as well. A fact I'm sure you're well-aware of."
Harry nodded grimly, glancing towards what could be seen of Hermione's body, as she was only partially concealed by the Cloak. "I've known that for five years."
Griffen nodded, a bit of a twinkle in his eyes that painfully reminded Harry of Albus Dumbledore. "And that only goes to show what the true meaning behind your actions was."
Sirius then took over, waving his hand in front of Griffen, signaling for silence. He bowed down before Harry, whisking his arms around his middle in a grand fashion, the shaggy strands of his midnight-black hair falling around his face as it lowered to the ground. "Mr. Harry Potter," he announced, straightening back up, "I invite you to a dinner specially prepared by one Sirius Black and one Hermione Granger, specifically for the purpose of congratulating your acceptance into the Wizards Aiding Rebels Organization."
Harry couldn't help grinning as a sudden thought occurred to him. Hermione rose an eyebrow in a half-scowl as she saw the playful grin, and yanked the Cloak over her head, tossing it at him. "What's so funny?" she asked.
He shook his head, rubbing at his brow as he fought back the laughter, after catching the Cloak once more. "Oh, just wondering if "100 Ways to Win a Man was included in the recipe."
Griffen blinked in confusion while Sirius looked away and pretended not to hear. But Hermione laughed, ticking the first few lines of the Witch Weekly article off as she headed out of the room, Harry close behind her.
Griffen and Sirius exchanged glances, shrugging in unison as they followed. "I have no idea what's so funny," Sirius told Griffen.